WHENEVER I'm moving my furniture in Or shifting my furniture out-- Which is nearly as often and risky as Sin In these days of shifting about-- There isn't a stretcher, there isn't a stick, Nor a mat that belongs to the floor; There isn't a pot (Oh, my heart groweth sick!) That escapes from the glare of Next Door! The Basilisk Glare of Next Door.
Be it morn, noon or night--be it early or late; Be it summer or winter or spring, I cannot sneak down just to list at the gate For the song that the bottle-ohs sing; With some bottles to sell that shall bring me a beer, And lead up to one or two more; But I feel in my backbone the serpentine sneer, And the Basilisk Glare of Next Door. The political woman Next Door.
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